


The Dark I Know Well

by ilostmyshoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sam-Centric, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilostmyshoe/pseuds/ilostmyshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Dean and John off on a hunt, Sam is left to struggle with demons of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark I Know Well

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for wren's writing workshop

He sits alone on a couch in the dark, the large knife on the table in front of him just barely visible in a shaft of moonlight that leaks between the heavy curtains. The smooth, curved blade, longer than his palm, has been sharpened to an almost invisibly fine edge. He traces it lightly with the tip of his finger, almost caressing it. He doesn’t feel it when the blade breaks the skin, only a slight burning sensation a moment afterwards. Moving his finger to the flat of the blade, he smears the liquid in lazy lines and swirls, his dark blood standing out starkly against the pale silver.

_It would be so easy to just…_

He jerks his hand away and curls back into the couch. He clenches his hands into fists, pressing his already clotting finger into his palm, and wraps his arms around his stomach.

 _“Fuck you,”_ he spits back at the voice in his head. _“I would never…”_

 _Of course. You’re right. A lazy, little shit like you would never do that. Too much work. Pathetic, desperate cries for attention are easy, but actually ending it? No, that would require actually_ doing _something._

_“So, I’m too lazy to kill myself? How tragic. Guess I’ll just have to live with that. Pun very much intended.”_

_Is that pride I hear? Pride in the endless depths of your selfishness? How obscene. As though sitting idly by, watching the last drops of happiness drain from everyone you claim to love, is some sort of twisted virtue. You’ve seen the pain in their eyes. Your father. Your brother. Those strangers you call friends. Every day, every hour of your continued existence slices into them again and again and again. But you can’t be bothered to make a clean break to let them finally heal. And you pretend it’s noble._

_“Shut up!”_ he snaps. _“Shut up. Shut up!_ Shut up!”

Unexpectedly, it does. For one, blissful moment there is peace and quiet inside his head and out, but the silence gradually becomes oppressive, suffocating. He grows intensely aware of how very empty his world is at three in the morning. No one moving around in the next room. No cars driving by outside, not even the delivery trucks he can sometimes hear on the main road a couple of blocks away. The echoes of nothingness bounce around inside his skull, layering over and over themselves until they coalesce into a familiar form.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

This doesn’t feel invasive like the other voice. No, it’s been there all along, humming just beneath the surface of his mind.

Now that he’s noticed it, it’s impossible to ignore.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

He curls his knees to his chest and presses his right fist into his stomach hard enough to feel his organs shift, hard enough for the grounding pressure to skirt the edges of pain.

It won’t leave a mark. He knows from experience that he can’t get to the point of bruising on his own. It’s the unspeakable, shameful reason that he savors every injury after a hunt or a particularly rough sparring session. Pressing at the bruises, picking at the scabs gives him easy access to the pain while still staying on the right side of the fragile line he has drawn for himself in the sand. But at the moment his body is inconveniently whole, and that line feels increasingly arbitrary.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

He sits forward, settling his feet back on the ground and wrapping his right hand slowly around the knife’s handle. He shifts his grip, flipping the knife from a forward hold to reverse and back. He revels in its perfect balance and the dance of the moonlight reflecting off of the blade.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

It would be so easy to drop it, loosen his grasp on the leather-wrapped handle and watch it slip from his fingers. If the blade fell in just the wrong ( _right_ ) way it would slice deep into his leg, cutting through skin and muscle, tendons and blood vessels. He could bleed out slowly, eventually passing out in a pool of his own blood, or in a matter of minutes if he hit the femoral artery.

_Or if you put your hand where it was a minute ago…_

The knife would slide into his belly, smooth and easy like cutting through butter. He could slice himself open with no effort at all, entrails spilling warm and wet over his hands, finally proving that he was just as human as anyone else. Or maybe it would prove that he wasn’t. Maybe the dark infection that he’s always felt inside of him would finally take visible form—thick black sludge oozing out alongside his blood and viscera.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

His hand holding the knife trembles slightly. He brings his other hand up to steady it.

_iwanttodieiwanttodieiwantto_

He bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood. He turns the blade inward.

_iwanttodieiwantto_

_Just fucking DO IT!_

He stabs the knife with all of his strength.

Down and in and back.

He forces the knife deep into the darkness behind him, and the silence explodes.

The knife shakes. and he clings to the handle. A whirlwind surrounds him, fills the room. He spits unfamiliar words into the vortex.

“Μου προκάλεσε θνητούς να σταματήσουν προβλέποντας τη μοίρα τους.”

A dozen shadowy arms claw and tear at him, carving jagged gashes across his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and continues.

“Μου προκάλεσε τυφλή ελπίδα να κατοικήσει μέσα τα στήθη τους.”

The whole building trembles. He prays that that’s a good sign and repeats the incantation, faster this time.

“Μου προκάλεσε θνητούς να σταματήσουν προβλέποντας τη μοίρα τους. Μου προκάλεσε τυφλή ελπίδα να κατοικήσει μέσα τα στήθη τους.*“

The shadows burn like ice. They dig into his cuts, peeling away the skin. They wrap tightly around his neck, force themselves between his lips.

“Μου προκάλεσε θνητούς να σταματήσουν προβλέποντας—“

The darkness tastes like ash and mold and bodies left to rot. It coats his tongue and the back of his throat. He forces his mouth to finish the words.

“—τη μοίρα τους. Μου προκάλεσε τυφλή—“

It clogs his lungs, more with every breath.

“—ελπίδα να κατοικήσει μέσα—“

It’s in his blood, rushing straight to his pounding heart. It’s in every cell of his body. It consumes him. It is him. There is no him—only darkness.

No.

There are three more words.

“τα”

“στήθη”

“τους.”

The monster vanishes.

He is left shaking on the couch, gasping for breath in the now-natural darkness. He manages to get the knife safely onto the table before collapsing completely.

Tomorrow he’ll scrub the runes off of the blade until it shines like new. He’ll stitch up the couch cushion and turn it to hide the hole. He’ll return the research books to the library, leaving a copy of his rough phonemic transcription tucked into the pages on the off chance some future reader comes looking for the same solution. A couple of days later his brother will call, crowing that he and dad have ganked the latest nasty and are on their way back. Soon after that he’ll be gone, and this place will be a distant memory.

For now, all he can do is curl up on his side, quietly humming “Hey Jude” and imagining his brother’s off-key voice mangling the lyrics. The phantom music almost blocks out the quiet, persistent litany of self-destruction that called the child of Moros to him in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> *”I caused mortals to cease foreseeing their doom. I caused blind hopes to dwell within their breasts.” from Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound; translated into English by Weir Smyth and back into Greek via Google Translate—which is probably/maybe roughly equivalent to young Sam’s ability without internet access.


End file.
